


Runaway

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angel!Lock, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, non-christian angels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:17:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6070153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes, Hunter for the Moriarty Clan, is sent to bring back a runaway slave to hand over to Lord James for punishment. But when she asks him why he looks sad when he thinks no one is looking, he realizes there's something more to her than meets the eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kindred

Inspiration image by duskybatfishgirl on tumblr [here](http://mizjoely.tumblr.com/post/139603602077/sobeautifullyobsessed-duskybatfishgirl-fallen-a)

He caught sight of her as he overflew the small copse of woods on the farthest edge of their master’s territory. She’d come close, he had to give her that; if he’d been just a bit less good at his job as Hunter, she might even have made it away from Moriarty territory and into the (relative) safety of Lestrade territory. Not that she’d be free; no, it would simply be trading one form of slavery for another. But the current clan leader - Gavin was his name, or was it Geoff? - was well known for his unwillingness to hand over any escaped slaves, human or angel, especially not to Moriarty. The feud between the two clans was violent and bloody and went back centuries and interested Sherlock not one whit.

All that interested him in the moment was retrieving Lord James’ runaway property and getting her back to the castle in order to face her punishment. He would fly her back, drop her off into Guard-Captain Moran’s custody, and return to his quarters for a well-earned week’s rest, the only reward he’d ever receive for doing his duty.

As he ghosted his way through the trees, honing in on her current hiding place in the underbrush, his silvery eyes took in every detail: the branches that might catch his wings, the small flashes of wildlife scurrying into hiding from what they rightly perceived as a threat, the few leaves that fell lazily to the ground. It was early fall, not the usual time for runaways, but the girl - Molly, he’d been told was her name - hadn’t really had much choice in the matter. She was a kitchen slave who’d caught Lord James Moriarty’s eye - and fled before he could bring her to his palatial bedroom and relieve her of her virginity.

He caught a glimpse of her face as he landed, panic in her features as she scrambled deeper into the underbrush. “You may as well come out now,” he called out confidently, laying a hand on the pommel of his sword. “If I have to I’ll cut down every branch and vine until you’ve nowhere left to hide.”

The frantic sounds of movement stilled as he spoke, and a small smile played about his lips as he waited for her to make her decision. It was exhilarating when they tried to run, but if she was sensible and came quietly, he could be home that much quicker. There was a particular scroll of mathematical proofs he was impatient to return to, not to mention the comfort of his own bed; it would be dark soon, too dark for even an angel’s exceptional vision to pierce, and he hated having to bed down outside even in the heat of summer.

The rustling of the underbrush resumed, and he listened carefully, smirking when he discerned that the rustling was towards and not away from him. A sudden wind gusted through the trees, lifting his dark hair away from his head, setting his feathers to fluttering and teasing the ends of his low-slung black kilt.

He wore very little other than that kilt: a sturdy brown leather sword belt, a leather harness across his chest, and a pair of leather braces around his upper arms to hold his throwing daggers. On his feet were leather sandals laced to just below his knees, all of it practical and well worn.

Except, of course, for the kilt. He remembered he’d once asked his sire why angels wore kilts, which seemed utterly impractical for flight. The only answer he’d received had been ‘tradition’, which seemed even more ridiculous; who started the tradition, when, and for Spirit’s sake, _why_?

He’d been full of questions as a young lad, but two decades of slavery after his own clan, the Holmes’, had been defeated in a brutal war against the Moriarty’s had effectively silenced that part of his nature. Now, he kept any questions to himself, performed his duties as a Hunter, and in return was allowed a precious measure of freedom. The sooner he returned this girl to the castle, the sooner he could partake of that freedom.

The rustling increased, and she stepped into view, brushing futilely at the leaves and twigs that had snarled her braided, waist-length hair and littered her clothing. She wore a simple tunic and trousers in the Moriarty clan colors of rust-red and black; her feet were shod in sturdy leather boots, and she carried a dark green cloak bundled around what he assumed were either her second set of clothes or stolen food, or both. Possibly there were some pathetic trinkets or mementos in the bundle as well, but he didn’t care enough to deduce the contents further. “You’re smart,” he said approvingly as she came to a stop just outside the thicket where she’d hidden herself in a futile attempt to avoid his notice. “Not everyone is. Let’s go.”

“Wait.”

He’d started to turn, to lead the way out of the copse of trees to open ground where he could more easily launch the pair of them into the air, but stopped at her single, desperate word. He raised an eyebrow as he studied her more closely this time. She was pretty enough, he supposed, with big brown eyes and hair a rich shade of cinnamon, but he wasn’t sure what exactly had drawn Lord James’ attention to her. “You look sad,” she blurted out, interrupting his wandering thoughts, and he stared at her in surprise and consternation. “Sorry!” she squeaked, blushing furiously. “I just…you do. And not just now, but back at the castle. I’ve seen you, when you think no one’s looking. And you always look…sad. I just…I’d like to know why. Before you bring me back to _him_.”

There was a world of loathing in that single word, loathing that he, too, felt for the other angel if he was careless with the lock he kept on his emotions. He took a step forward, frowning, his hand clenching tightly to the pommel of his sword. “Girl, don’t overstep any more than you already have,” he warned her.

Instead of bursting into tears or groveling for mercy, she stood her ground, flinching a bit when he moved forward but otherwise remaining still, arms wrapped around her small parcel of belongings. “It doesn’t matter what I do or say; he’s going to have me whipped at the very least, make an example of me. And then he’ll either rape me himself or let Guard-Captain Moran do it. Then have me killed right after.”

Her voice remained steady as she spoke, and Sherlock found himself impressed in spite of himself. She’d known exactly what she was in for if she fled, but rather than take the easy path and submit to the inevitable, she’d chosen to take her chances on escape. “You should have just let him take you in the first place,” he felt constrained to point out, drawn into conversation in spite of himself. There were very few people, angels or human, who could manage that; his wing-mate John Watson had been one of them, and John’s human wife, Mary, another.

No. Shut the memories away. They were dead now, just like Sherlock’s own family. The dead belonged in the past, and he had long ago vowed to live only in the present.

The girl - Molly - shrugged. “I couldn’t just sit there and let him…it was bad enough when my family was sold into slavery to pay off debts, but to know that eventually I would have to surrender my virginity to someone as, as cruel and heartless as Lord James? Just because of some stupid tradition? No.” Her face was set, her expression hardened by anger but surprisingly beautiful.

What the hell was wrong with him? He was a seasoned Hunter, not some moon-eyed stripling in the flush of first love! His sudden surge of - not sympathy, but understanding - was entirely beside the point. Just because she, too, longed for the freedom to live her life as she pleased, didn’t mean he should delay her return to the castle.

“What makes you think life in Clan Lestrade will be any better?” He narrowed his eyes as she tensed, just the smallest bit. Unnoticeable by eyes not as sharp as his, very likely ignored by minds duller than his own. Which is to say, almost every other mind he’d ever encountered. He swept her with his gaze, picking up on clues he’d missed before. “Open the bundle,” he said coldly. When she simply stared at him, he reached across his abdomen and pulled his sword partially from its sheathe. “Open it.”

Finally there was fear in her eyes instead of defiance; she carefully laid the bundled cloak on the ground, picking apart the - rather expertly tied - knots. It fell open easily, and he took quick but careful stock of the contents. A second tunic, as expected. A small packet of needles and a roll of thread, practical when one only had two sets of clothes. But the other items… “Flint and tinder,” he said, holding her gaze with his as he recited the remaining contents. “A small hand-axe. A brace of knives suitable for many tasks. Fishing line and hooks. A handful of candle stubs and a small length of rope, most likely clothesline.” His voice turned incredulous. “You weren’t running for Clan Lestrade territory, you were going into the wilderness.”

She’d pulled her lower lip between her teeth while he spoke, and shifted nervously from foot to foot as he stared at her. After a moment, she let out a puff of breath and gave a sharp nod, confirming his deduction, as insane as it seemed. “I was. I know how to set traps; my father taught me before he died. I know how to fish, and how to prepare whatever I’ve caught be it land animal or water; that was one of my jobs in the kitchens. And there are caves too small for bears or wolves to use, that I could spend the winter in. After that, I was going to find someplace to build some kind of permanent shelter.”

“Or die trying.”

She nodded again. “Or die trying. Die _free_.”

He considered her words, her passion stirring something in his heart long turned cold, long denied. Freedom. To be able to go where he wanted, when he wanted, to live his life as he chose,under no master’s boot…it was a dream, but not one he’d allowed himself for many, many years. Because the price of freedom, of course, was manyfold: fear, hunger, thirst; freezing in the winter, burning in the summer. And always the need to look over one’s shoulder, because Lord James Moriarty was not one to either forgive or forget.

Especially if the one who fled was a valuable slave like a seasoned Hunter.

“Close it back up,” Sherlock said gruffly, gesturing toward the cloak. Molly lowered herself to her knees, carefully refolding the cloak and then tying the knots. She hefted it into her arms and rose to her feet, her eyes on him the entire time. “Come here.”

Her eyes slid longingly toward the underbrush, then lowered as she trudged forward obediently. Sherlock took her hand in his, first pulling the cloak from her arms and fastening it to his harness so it hung low on his back between his wings.

As soon as they emerged onto the open meadows, he swung her into his arms. “You never answered me,” she gasped as her arms automatically encircled his neck, sliding between the warm flesh and her cloak-bundle. “About looking sad. Will you?”

As last requests went, it was simple enough, and yet so complicated that he hesitated to answer her. Finally he turned his gaze so that their eyes once again met. He wondered briefly what she thought of his appearance; dark hair slicked back and tied at the neck by a bit of rawhide; silver eyes with hints of blue and green when the light hit it at just the right angle; black wings and pale skin, the latter marked with scars from the many battles he’d fought - and from some desperate souls ready to die rather than return to receive punishment at their master’s hands.

“For the same reason you do,” he finally answered her, then launched the pair of them into the air. He held his lips close to her ear as he added, “Because until now, there’s been no one to catch me if I fall.”

Stared at him uncomprehendingly until he changed direction, flying not toward the Moriarty clan seat, not toward the Lestrade territories, but northward.

Toward the wilderness - and freedom.


	2. Snowboun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry folks, the smutty stuff doesn't start till next chapter. Remember, patience is a virtue!

It wasn’t that easy, of course. They didn’t simply fly off into the wilderness and immediately find an idyllic spot in which to live out the remainder of their lives. There were false starts and fights and threats of leaving (him) and threats of murder (her), but by the time winter came and forced them into seclusion in a cave high on a cliff-side (inaccessible to most predators), they’d basically sorted themselves out.

Her snares and fishing line came in handy, as well as just about everything else she’d brought with her. Sherlock soon found himself with a deer-skin tunic she’d cleverly designed to fit around his wings, a rabbit-fur-lined cloak also made of deer-skin, and even a pair of boots wrapped snugly to his calves by the lacings from his (impractical in winter) sandals.

Although he didn’t feel the cold the way humans did, he appreciated the warm garments when the icy northern winds began to blow, and the snow to fall. They spent the remainder of the autumn building up stores of food, smoking and salting the meat he hunted and cobbling together deer-hide bags to store nuts and what few roots and tubers and even late fruits they could gather.

Six months later a blizzard trapped them inside together, the winds too strong for him to fly through and the knotted rope Molly had woven out of sturdy grapevine too brittle and clotted with ice to be safely utilized.

The months before that storm had been filled with far too much activity for any sort of conversation beyond the purely functional, which suited Sherlock quite well. Molly hadn’t pressed him as to why he’d been willing to throw aside his comfortable, if somewhat constrained, life as a valued Hunter for Clan Moriarty in order to live rough in the wilderness he despised. Nor was he certain he could offer her one that made sense, as he had no real idea why he’d done it himself.

Partly it was because he’d decided, against all reason, that she was someone he could trust, although he still wasn’t sure why. Just because she hated her life as a Moriarty slave as much as he did, it didn’t automatically follow that they were some sort of...kindred spirits. He’d scoffed at the concept from the moment John had expressed it to him, but the other angel - his only true friend - had persisted in believing in it. He’d believed it of the two of them, and he’d believed it of his human mate, Mary, whom he’d met while Sherlock was temporarily exiled to one of Lord James’ more remote holdings. 

He scowled at the memory as he carefully honed the edges of another stone arrowhead. His exile to the farthest reaches of Moriarty clan holdings had been decreed by Lord James for his intervention in punishment being meted out to one of the older slaves, Mistress Hudson. Guard-Captain Moran had been a little too over-enthusiastic for Sherlock’s taste, and for the first time in his life he’d actually defied someone with the power of life and death over him.

Fortunately Lord James found it amusing rather than treasonous, but had nevertheless ordered Sherlock away as punishment. “The only reason you’re still breathing, Sherlock,” Lord James had told him with one of his cold little smiles, “is because I’ve never seen Seb taken down by anyone smaller than him before.” The smile had quickly vanished as he added, “Still, I can’t allow this go completely unpunished, sets a bad precedent. So off to the North-holds you go. Now.”

He hadn’t even been allowed to say good-bye to John, and discovered upon his return that the other angel had believed him dead. Had grieved his loss, and only come through that grief when he’d met his wife, a slave only recently brought to the Moriarty castle to work in one of the kitchens as a bread-maker.

She and Molly had never crossed paths. If she’d lived longer, who knew? They might have become friends. People liked her, came to her with their troubles, and she soothed hurts they didn’t even know they had. Certainly she’d done that for John, and for Sherlock as well, although he’d never taken the time to tell her so.

Sherlock shuttered his heart against the flare of pain the memories of his dead friends brought him. John had died in battle and Mary had succumbed to one of the many illnesses that swept through the holdings in the winter time. At least John hadn’t been forced to watch his beloved wife as she coughed up blood and gradually wasted away.

Angels weren’t susceptible to such illnesses, of course, but he would have to be sure to keep a close eye on Molly. If she showed even a single symptom, he decided, he would immediately fly her to Lestrade territory. Lord Garth (Gunther? Giles?) was rumored to be far more lenient to his slaves than Lord James, even to the point of providing medical care and allowing even their most serious injuries to be tended to rather than simply putting them to death when they became liabilities.

Sherlock watched from the corner of his eye as Molly quietly went about whatever domestic chores she’d chosen to take up today. He was still unable to fathom how such a small human woman could contain so much quiet determination within her slight form. Every time he thought he’d deduced all he could about her, she managed to surprise him.

Like the request she’d made of him a few weeks after they’d settled into this cave.

He’d returned with a string of rabbits and two pheasant for her to skin and pluck; she’d thanked him in her quiet way, then put her hand on his wrist when he made to fly back out for a second run. “I know I’m not the comeliest maid,” she said in her forthright way, blushing a bit as she did so. “But if you ever want...if you ever need…you can have me if you need me,” she’d finished in a rush, her blush darkening to a furious red the spread down her neck to the collar of her tunic.

When he’d simply stared at her, struck speechless by her offer, she’d rushed on. “If Lord James or his men ever find us, I don’t want one of them, or him to be the one to, to be my first.”

He hadn’t known what to say then, and he still didn’t know what to say now, months later. She’d never brought it up again, and he was certain it was because she took his silence as rejection instead of the confusion it had been. No woman had ever offered such a priceless gift to him before, not even those with the right to choose their own lovers.

Such thoughts continued to plague him as they settled into their separate bedding for the night. The fire was banked even though the cold was piercing, in order to conserve their firewood. With no way to know how long the storm would keep them trapped, it made sense. Molly had insisted on it, in fact, even though she was obviously freezing.

He considered the options; simply giving her his own coverings wouldn’t be enough, and would leave him feeling the cold. Not as badly as she was, but enough to make him uncomfortable, and possibly enough to stiffen his muscles, especially in his wings. And that could be disastrous for them both.

He told himself it was purely logical for them to share body heat, but in his heart of hearts he knew he was hiding behind practicality. The truth was that he  _ wanted  _ to feel her close to him, that he  _ wanted  _ to take her in his arms and discover what it would be like to kiss her, to touch her, to take what she so generously offered. Even if she only made the offer to keep another from taking it from her.

Sherlock snorted quietly to himself. Right. She only offered him her virginity because she didn’t want Lord James to be the one to take it. As if he didn’t know how desperately she wanted him.

As if he didn’t want her just as desperately.

“Molly.” 

He’d said her name aloud almost before he realized he’d reached a decision.

“Sh-sherlock? Is something wrong?” She sat up, reaching out automatically for her bow, but he placed a hand on her arm, stilling her. “What is it?” she asked, staring at him alertly but no longer alarmed.

In answer he tugged at her wrist, pulling her free of her tangle of cloak and furs and deer hide coverings. She came willingly, but clearly puzzled - at least until he gently gathered her into his arms and stroked a hand down the side of her face. “Sherlock?” she whispered, gazing up at him with an expression of cautious hope blooming in her warm brown eyes.

“It’s only going to get colder, Molly,” he said, pitching his voice just as low as hers. Not out of any need for caution - no one could possibly hear them over the storm howling outside the hide-covered cave entrance - but because of the intimacy of the moment. “Come, lie with me. Share my warmth.”

“J-just your warmth?”

Part of him was trying to panic, to spit out the words that would crush the spark of hope in her eyes.  _ Tell her yes, it’s a matter of efficiency and nothing more,  _ that part of his mind whispered.

For only the second time in his life, he ignored that voice in favor of embracing the unknown. Oh, he’d taken lovers before, both angelic and human, but never had his heart been involved in the base carnality of those encounters. Nor had there ever been any fear that his partners might want - or need - more from him than a simple joining of bodies. Molly, he knew, was already halfway in love with him; to give himself to her this way would likely only encourage her feelings for him.

And that, he decided as he lowered his face to hers in order to press a soft kiss to her lips, was no bad thing.

Because somehow or other, during their brief time together, he’d fallen more than halfway in love with her, too.


	3. Consummation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be at least one more chapter after this one. Enjoy!

As soon as they’d combined their bedding, Sherlock and Molly quickly removed their clothes. He wore only his kilt and smallclothes, but she was bundled up in everything she owned. It was awkward, helping her peel away each layer, but infinitely rewarding when her naked form was finally revealed to his appreciative eyes. He’d already noted her trim figure and small but pert breasts; seeing them now with no intervening clothing, her curves and hollows revealed to his appreciative eyes, was a pleasure he now wished he hadn’t denied himself for so long.

She blushed under his gaze, all that lovely expanse of exposed skin flushing pink, but even the heat of his gaze was no match for the cold air. He wasted no time in easing her onto her back and covering her body with his own. He partially raised his wings, curving them around them and blocking many of the errant drafts that periodically added to the chill in the air. Her shy smile was all the thanks he needed, but he nodded as she spoke the words.

He’d never felt so protective of anyone, human or angel, at least not like this. How had this small human woman managed to overcome a lifetime of believing himself invulnerable to any emotion stronger than friendship? Then she bit her lip and reached out to stroke a tentative hand along the top edge on one wing, and he sucked in a breath, startled and further aroused by her unexpected movement. Their exertions had him already half-hard and he saw the widening of her eyes as he shifted his body closer to hers. 

“Have you ever...of course you have, silly question, sorry,” Molly said in a rush as she stared up at him. His own eyes were well suited to seeing in the cave’s near-darkness, but to her he would be not much more than a pale blur.

“I have, but not as often as you probably think,” he said in answer to half-asked question. “And never with a maiden.”

“Oh.” She nibbled again at her bottom lip (nervous habit, long-standing, incredibly arousing), bringing up her other hand and laying it carefully along the side of his face. He turned and pressed a soft kiss to the palm of her hand, listening complacently as she gasped quietly at the fleeting touch. “I’ve never even been kissed,” she admitted in a near-whisper, as if such a confession was too scandalous even for the cover of darkness.

“Time to remedy that, then, don’t you think?” he asked her, lips quirking up in a smile she couldn’t see. He lowered his face to hers, cradling the back of her head in one hand, tugging just the slightest bit at her hair in order to guide her into raising her head up to a better angle. Then he closed the small distance between them, covering her mouth with his and coaxing it open with a gentle press of his tongue.

Molly proved to be an apt and willing pupil, allowing him to guide her into deepening the kiss, her arms creeping around his shoulders and her fingers threading through his hair as he massaged the back of her neck and stroked her cheek. As soon as he felt her relaxing into his embrace, he lowered his body so that it was resting directly on hers, with one leg between her thighs, her breasts touching his chest, and his now fully-hard erection directly over her sex.

He heard her sharp intake of breath as he did so, and gave her a minute to adjust to the feel of his body against hers before resuming the kiss. He could feel the heat shimmering from her body and knew it would be pleasantly flushed and pink when he next looked on it. His own temperature was rising as well, and he felt a sudden urge to mark her in some way, to claim her as his own in a way that anyone could recognize, in contrary to his desire to take things slowly. To let this first time between them be as gentle and loving as he could manage.

Fortunately Molly seemed disinclined to use her inexperience as an excuse for further shyness; her hands moved boldly over every part of his body they could reach, including the space between them currently generating the most heat. He obligingly lifted his hips to give her more room, and nuzzled at her neck as she explored his increasingly-hard shaft.

His hands were doing their own exploring, one playing with the glorious waterfall of her unbraided hair and the other moving from her hip in a slow, sensuous glide up to her breasts. She let out a breathy moan as he thumbed her nipple, and a louder gasp as he removed his lips and teeth from her neck and drew the pink nub into his mouth. “Oh, that’s, that’s lovely,” she said, sounding happily surprised. “Please, don’t stop, please Sherlock…”

He liked the sound of his name on her lips anyway, but it sounded even better when she was pleading so prettily for him to do something he was enjoying. She made a small protesting sound when he pulled his lips away from her breast, then cooed happily when he moved to the other one, roughly palming the one he’d just abandoned. Her grasp on his cock tightened and her thumb grazed the tip as he jerked his hips and grunted in reaction. She squeezed again and he glanced up to see her smiling at him, half-proudly and half in disbelief, as if she couldn’t believe she’d been the one to make him react that way.

He was happy to let her continue her explorations for the moment, intent as he was in some further explorations of his own. He nuzzled at her throat, sucking lightly as he moved his hand back to her hip, then down toward the thatch of brown hair covering her sex. He dipped the tip of his index finger between her folds, finding the seam of her sex just as slick and hot as he’d hoped it would be.

Molly squeaked out a surprised “Oh!” as he continued to stroke her most intimate parts, rubbing small circles over her pleasure center with his thumb. Her breathing became erratic, as did his when she mimicked his movements by pressing her own thumb over the very tip of his erection, her thumbnail occasionally grazing his slit and setting his heart rate soaring.

“Molly,” he said raggedly as his breathing developed a decided hitch, “if you keep doing that, you’re likely to find yourself in a rather...sticky situation before too long.” The roughness of his voice had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with a very different sort of agitation. One with a cure pleasantly to hand, if he could be forgiven the crude innuendo.

No. That wasn’t how he wanted their first encounter to end. He reached down and gently covered her hand with his, stopping her movements. His other hand, however, continued its gentle ministrations; he was determined that she reach her peak before they joined their bodies fully together, well aware of the fact that maidens rarely gained full pleasure from their first coupling.

With that in mind he redoubled his efforts, guiding her hand up to his face and kissing her palm as he continued to stroke her. She was gasping and writhing against him, her kisses sloppy and urgent as the fire he’d clearly stoked in her belly continued to burn. Soon, very soon she was keening out her release, her internal muscles clenching around his fingers, the musky aroma of her arousal too much of a temptation to resist. She gasped as he brought his hand to his mouth and licked her juices from each individual finger.

“That, that was…” She fell silent, and he allowed himself a moment of smug enjoyment at knowing he’d been the one to turn her into an inarticulate mess.

“Yes, it was,” he agreed, gently pressing his knee back between her legs. He was throbbing with need, the taste of her on his lips acting as the most potent of aphrodisiacs. Next time, he resolved, he would bring her pleasure with his mouth, if she’d allow it.

But that was for another time. Right now, he needed to be inside her, to join with her as nature and the Gods (if such beings truly existed) had decreed. “Are you ready for me?” he asked in a low murmur by her ear.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice just the tiniest bit unsteady. She placed her hands on his shoulders and widened her legs in an invitation as old as time. “Please, Sherlock.”

He took himself in hand, his wings fluttering a bit in reaction as he placed the tip of his manhood against her opening. She was still slick, hot and ready for him. He pushed in slowly, feeling the slightest resistance as she automatically clenched around him. “Relax, Molly, I promise, it will only hurt for a short while.”

“It doesn’t hurt,” she breathed, fingers digging into his shoulders. “It feels...I need more.” She lifted her hips in an impatient thrust, and with that movement he found himself completely sheathed inside her.

Her boldness nearly undid him, but he kept tight control of himself somehow, groaning out her name as she squirmed beneath him. Once he was certain he wouldn’t embarrass himself by immediately emptying himself into her like an untried youth, he began to move, guiding her enthusiastic thrusts with softly murmured suggestions. The soon found a rhythm that worked, and the sound of their groans and soft cries, coupled with the slap of skin on skin, was the most beautiful music he’d ever heard.

Until, that is, he heard Molly calling out his name as she reached a second peak; he could feel her tightening around him, and when she turned her head and blindly sunk her teeth into the fleshy part of his ear, he gave a great shout and quickly joined her in falling over the edge of pleasure.


	4. Discovery

Their oldest child was nearly ten when they were discovered. Mary had her mother’s warm brown eyes and long brown hair, but her other features were purely those of her sire - including her glossy black wings, so recently fledged. She’d been testing those wings and had forgotten her parents’ admonitions not to go above the treeline in her joy at making her first full flight. By purest, most dreadful coincidence (although Sherlock vaguely remembered his brother Mycroft once saying the universe was rarely so lazy) she’d been spotted by a patrol of Moriarty Hunters, who had immediately diverted to their remote hiding place.

When the group of nine helmeted and lightly armored Hunters touched down in the small glen that held their rough-hewn log cabin of a home, Sherlock was there to greet them, sword in hand and the grim determination to keep his family safe burning in his heart. Mary’s tearful cries that she’d seen other angels flying toward them had been all he’d needed to send her, along with Molly and their four other children, fleeing into the forest, making their way to the cave that had been their original home that first winter. They stored food, bedding, water and other emergency supplies there for just such a dreaded occasion. Even ten years gone, neither Molly nor Sherlock had lost their vigilance or their fear of being dragged back to face Lord James’ wrath.

And in spite of that vigilance, in spite of having specifically warned their offspring of the dangers of being noticed by outsiders, here they were. The nightmare had become reality. Although part of him was infuriated by Mary’s carelessness, the rest of him knew it was merely a matter of the inevitable catching up to them.

Just as it was inevitable that the leader of this group of Hunters was Guard-Captain Moran.

He said nothing as Moriarty’s favorite swaggered up to him, simply noting the changes that ten years had wrought in his old adversary as he pulled his helmet off and tucked it under his arm. The bully whose actions had led to his two-year exile once upon a time now sported a touch of grey in his hair, most noticeably at the temples, although his moustache was as black and glossy as ever. Perhaps a bit  _ too  _ black and glossy; vanity had always been one of Moran’s failings (one of many, many failings) and it wouldn’t surprise him to discover that the angel was using some sort of dye to color his facial hair.

Trivial changes, to be ignored as he took in other, more subtle differences: the thickening of Moran’s waist, the slight sag to his belly that spoke of a soft life and begged the question why he would bestir himself to lead a group of Hunters himself rather than delegating that chore to another.

With a flick of an eye he caught the most important detail of all: not only was Moran’s badge of office missing, but his scabbard hung empty by his side. Moran was no longer Guard-Captain, had done something to fall out of favor with Lord James, at least temporarily. Now if only he could use that knowledge to his family’s advantage...

“What happened, Moran, finally cross a line even the Moriarty clan leader couldn’t turn a blind eye to?” he asked in a deliberately insolent drawl. He nodded toward the other angels, clustered a respectful - or cautious - distance from the two of them. “You aren’t leading them, they’re escorting you. Permanent exile, I take it? Or else you’d still be wearing your emblems of rank.”

Moran’s smile and swagger had dropped away as soon as Sherlock began speaking, his bulky form tense and mouth set in a hard line. “I see ten years rotting in the mountains with no one but your human slut for company hasn’t taught you to keep that smart mouth of your shut.”

“Take a care how you talk about my wife,” Sherlock warned, tightening his grip on his sword handle.

The other angel’s response was a sneer. “You’ve grown soft, Sherlock, letting us spot you like that…”

“It wasn’t him.”

Both men turned to face the speaker, an angel at least a decade older than Moran, from what little of his features Sherlock could see beneath his helmet. “What was that, Graham?” Moran demanded.

“It wasn’t him we spotted,” the older angel said, nodding at Sherlock. “It was another angel. Smaller. Possibly female, definitely a child.”

Moran swung his head back to face Sherlock, mouth agape, then let loose an ugly laugh as Sherlock’s expression hardened. “Oh by the Gods, you  _ bred  _ with her? This is even better than I thought.” Without turning away from Sherlock, he said, “Take your men and find them, Graham. Trust me when I say Lord James will be more than pleased to see you return me to him if we have living proof of this bastard’s betrayal.”

“Our orders were quite clear,” the other man said even as Sherlock tensed and snapped out, “You’ll not lay a hand on my mate or child, not and live to talk of it.”

“Your mate was marked by Lord James for his own pleasure,” Moran sneered. “Bringing you three back to him will more than earn my forgiveness. Trust me, Graham, you want to help me with this. Lord James will reward you richly.”

“I’m not sure the price we’d pay in lives would be worth it,” Graham said, but he was no longer speaking to Moran, he was holding Sherlock’s gaze. He still hadn’t reached for his sword, although his hand rested not far from the pommel. “I suspect that not only Sherlock but the lady with the arrow trained at your head right now would be happy to ensure that not all of us make it out of here alive.”

“Leave now and no one has to die.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly, mouth narrowed in a thin line as he heard his mate speaking from somewhere in the trees. Somewhere above them and slightly to the west. She must have sent the children to the caves and stayed behind. He wanted to shake her and kiss her at the same time for her foolish bravery. “I’ll go with you peacefully,” he said to Graham. “Leave my mate and child here, guarantee their safety, and I’ll go with you to face Lord James.”

“No!” 

The cry came from both Molly and Moran. The former Guard-Captain’s eyes had narrowed and his fists were clenched as he rounded on Sherlock, his dark grey wings sweeping out behind him dramatically. “No, you’re  _ all  _ coming back, you hear me, bitch?” he shouted. “All of you!” Then he charged Sherlock, unmindful of his sword, knocking him down with one powerful sweep of his wing before pouncing on him and attempting to wrestle his weapon away from him.

An arrow hissed through the air but Sherlock was too busy trying to regain the upper hand to note anything other than the fact that it hit the ground rather than any of the other eight angels. As he and Moran fought, he waited for Graham and the others to pull them apart, to begin the hunt for Molly and Mary, to do anything but what he actually saw once he’d managed to flip Moran beneath him, his legs locked around the other angel’s neck and squeezing hard.

As Moran grunted and gasped for breath, his hand ineffectively tugging at Sherlock’s legs, his wings flapping frantically, Sherlock stared at the fight that had broken out at the other end of the clearing. For some reason he couldn’t fathom, Moriarty’s Hunters were now fighting amongst themselves, four against three with Graham standing and watching impassively. As Moran went limp, Graham removed his helmet, running a hand through his short-cropped silver hair as he looked down at the two of them. “I recommend cutting his primaries so he can’t fly after us. Unless you intend to simply murder him in cold blood.”

“He deserves it,” Sherlock replied, but pulled his body up and out from beneath Moran’s unconscious form. At the other end of the clearing, the fighting had come to an end, with four of Lord James’ Hunters sullenly resting on their knees with their hands clasped on top of their heads. “Isn’t that why you and your men infiltrated his escort? So you could kill him...Lord Gregory?”


	5. Resolution

_Previously:_

_As Moran grunted and gasped for breath, his hand ineffectively tugging at Sherlock's legs, his wings flapping frantically, Sherlock stared at the fight that had broken out at the other end of the clearing. For some reason he couldn't fathom, Moriarty's Hunters were now fighting amongst themselves, four against three with Graham standing and watching impassively. As Moran went limp, Graham removed his helmet, running hand through his short-cropped silver hair as he looked down at the two of them. "I recommend cutting his primaries so he can't fly after us. Unless you intend to simply murder him in cold blood."_

_"He deserves it," Sherlock replied, but pulled his body up and out from beneath Moran's unconscious form. At the other end of the clearing, the fighting had come to an end, with four of Lord James' Hunters sullenly resting on their knees with their hands clasped on top of their heads. "Isn't that why you and your men infiltrated his escort? So you could kill him...Lord Gregory?"_

 

Lord Gregory smiled, his teeth a brilliant white against the tan of his skin. "Nah, the plan was to get him to talk, to tell us everything he knew of Moriarty's defenses, the layout of the castle, numbers of Hunters - although I have a pretty good idea of that now. Then my men and I were going to leave him with his official escort at the North-holds, and return to my own lands with the information we need to launch an attack in the fall."

"Why come yourself?" Sherlock held out his hand as his mate spoke, not needing to see her to know how close she now stood behind him. "Why would the Lord of Clan Lestrade risk his own life for a scouting mission?" she asked as she stepped to Sherlock's side, grasping his outstretched hand in hers.

"Because there's only so much you can delegate, and only so much information you can interpret at second hand," he replied, speaking directly to her. Another sign in his favor; many angels would ignore Molly, being both a woman and a human and therefore well beneath their notice. "I needed to see how the land lay with my own eyes, lest I start a war I couldn't win."

"Are you so certain that you'll win this one? What if Moran or one of these other Hunters make their way back to Castle Moriarty before you can set those plans in motion?" Sherlock asked. Not that he was terribly interested in anything except the continued well-being of his family; if Lord Gregory decided to claim them as his vassals, as would be his right, he would have another fight on his hands.

Before the leader of Clan Lestrade could answer, a rock pelted him in the shoulder, and he gave a cry of pain. Sherlock whirled to face the newest threat, only to stare unbelievingly as he saw Mary darting out of the cover of the trees, her slingshot in her hand, wings flapping furiously to keep her aloft. "You leave my Da alone!" she shrilled, taking aim and swooping dangerously close to her target. "You leave us all alone!"

"Mary!" Her mother's angry shout caught their daughter's attention; she looked over at Molly, who simply glared and pointed at the ground in front of her. "Down here, right now! And you will apologize to Lord Gregory this instant!"

Sherlock watched as his eldest made a rather wobbly landing, then launched herself into his arms and buried her face in his chest. "I just wanted to help!" she wailed.

His arms automatically went around her, holding her close as Molly continued to look sternly down at her. For just a few seconds the very real danger surrounding them faded to inconsequential background noise as he comforted Mary, but it all snapped back into focus when Lord Gregory said, "No apologies necessary, little one. Not for protecting your family." He locked gazes with Molly, again impressing Sherlock by his understanding that she was the parent he needed to deal with right now. "And never to me."

Then he deliberately turned his back on the little family, barking orders at his men to render the Moriarty Hunters temporarily flightless. Taking the hint, Sherlock kissed Mary on the top of her head before shooing her gently toward her mother. Molly hugged her close, kneeling down so they were eye-level while he set about making sure Moran couldn't follow wherever they might go from here, at least not by flying.

Keeping her voice low, Molly asked, "Are your brothers and sisters safe?"

Mary nodded, and when she spoke, it was also in a whisper. "I made sure the big rocks were blocking the entrance so Marta couldn't crawl out. Johnny was sleeping, an' Sookie an' Myc are watching them, they promised."

Myc was eight, Sookie was five, Marta was almost three and Johnny was just shy of his first birthday. Other parents might flinch at the thought of Myc and Sookie being left in charge of the others, but not Sherlock. His children knew responsibility and the importance of keeping their word, and his heart swelled with pride even as he continued his grim work.

He would much rather have put Moran more permanently out of commission, but instinct told him that doing so would put be a mistake; if Lord Gregory wanted any of the prisoners dead, he'd have ordered their executions. Sherlock wondered if it was a sign of weakness, as Lord James would surely deem it, or if the other angel actually had a reason for showing mercy.

He received the answer to that question shortly after he finished and rose to his feet. Moran was moaning and thrashing about, but not quite ready for consciousness to reclaim him. Lord Gregory strode over, courteously waiting for Molly and Mary to move before he raised his sword, smashing the pommel against Moran's head with just enough force to ensure that he wouldn't awaken for some time. When he spoke this time, he kept his gaze trained on Sherlock's face. "You have a choice."

Sherlock nodded; he'd been expecting those very words. "I willingly put myself in your hands," he replied. "But I will not subject my family to slavery. All I ask is that you allow Molly and Mary to go free."

Molly started to protest; he silenced her with a gesture, keeping his eyes locked on those of the other angel. Lord Gregory smiled, a half-smile that told Sherlock his terms might actually be agreed to.

When he spoke again, however, it was to make an entirely unexpected offer. "I'm not looking to add to the ranks of my slaves, believe it or not. In fact, I'd much rather have loyalty freely offered rather than coerced. So here's your choice: You and your family flee further north, because I will not allow you to remain here and finish off Lord Moriarty's men after I've gone. Or you swear your fealty to me - _both_ of you," he added glancing over at Molly, still standing with her arms protectively around Mary's shoulders. "You tell me what you know of Lord James, and help me with my war against him, and I swear your children will find safety in my lands."

Neither Sherlock nor Molly missed his deliberate choice of words; either he'd overheard or he'd simply realized they had more than one child they were protecting.

"Can we have a moment to discuss your offer?" Sherlock asked. Lord Gregory nodded, stepping over to his men and speaking to them in tones too low for them to overhear. Sherlock moved a little farther away from them as well, uncaringly stepping on Moran's wing as he did so. Molly and Mary joined him, although she made certain to avoid the other angel, shuddering a bit as she carefully walked their daughter around him.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked in a low voice as soon as they stopped in front of him.

"I think we should accept," Molly said immediately. "Swear fealty and take our family to Clan Lestrade lands."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow; he'd not expected that of her, certainly not so quickly. "Surely it'll be safer for us all if we flee?" he asked, testing the waters of her resolve. "Avoid the war to come, keep them safely away from it all?"

"For how long?" she countered, reaching out and laying a hand on his arm. "Whether Lord Gregory wins or not, they're not the only angels who seek to expand their holdings. No matter where we run, sooner or later someone will find us. And then there's the children; they're young now but the day will come when they'll want to find mates of their own, to live their own lives." She sighed and stroked Mary's long brown hair. "For their sakes, we must accept."

"And if Clan Lestrade turns out to be no better than Clan Moriarty?"

She jutted out her chin. "Then we leave. We go somewhere else. But I believe Lord Gregory; his words have the ring of truth. I trust him."

"As do I," Sherlock agreed. "He seems an honorable man, unlike some." Neither needed to hear the name Moriarty to know of whom he spoke. "His actions here speak well of him; he could have simply executed the other Hunters and Moran, tortured them to get what information they need, taken us prisoner - or at least tried." His expression was grim. "I swore to you that our children would never live in slavery, Molly, and I will never break that oath."

"I know." She placed her hand over his, while his wings rustled restlessly on his shoulders. "So, Mary. What do you think?" She looked down at their oldest child, who'd been listening wide-eyed to the entire conversation.

"I think it would be interesting to meet other children my age," she said with the forthrightness she'd learned from her father. "And maybe have some books to read." Her gaze traveled down to the sheathe resting against his hip. "Would I get to have a sword of my own?"

Sherlock gathered her into a tight hug in spite of her squawks of protest. "Yes, my bloodthirsty little bird, you would eventually get your own sword, if you choose to train as a Hunter or Guard. But first things first; let's go get your brothers and sisters while your mother speaks to Lord Gregory about our decision." He glanced at Molly, who nodded her approval. Then it was her turn to be swept into his arms while Mary scurried out of the way. "So, wife, we're about to embark on yet another adventure. Are you sure you don't regret letting me tie my fate to yours?"

"Never," she breathed, pulling him down for a tender kiss. "Not for a single minute," she added when the kiss ended.

He watched as she once again edged around Moran's supine form, admiring the curve of her hips and the determined set of her shoulders in equal measure. Then he knelt to do as Lord Gregory had advised, lecturing his daughter the entire time on the proper way to render an angel temporarily flightless.

Running away with Molly rather than returning her to Moriarty was the single best decision he'd ever made in his life - and like her, he had absolutely no regrets.

No matter what the future might bring, they would face it together.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Faithfully](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6268708) by [MizJoely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely)




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